inappropriate feelingsiversary

Timehop reminds me that three years ago I flew home from NYC the day after being sexually assaulted.

 

Which, in turn, reminds me that last year I wrote a post that I’d rather not talk about. I’d prefer to take it down and pretend it didn’t happen. But instead of that, Imma try and woman up.

Last year I had some inappropriate feelings and I expressed those feelings in an inappropriate way.

Rather than talking to people, I was passive aggressive and selfish. I won’t go into details, but, well... that blog post is a pretty good example. “HEY I’M MAD THAT MY FRIENDS WENT TO BLOGHER BECAUSE I SHOULD BE MORE IMPORTANT TO THEM” she shouted to everyone and no one. I’m not proud of this behavior.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about it since then, and within the past few months I think I’ve figured some things out:

1. It is not up to other people to emotionally take care of me. That’s my job. I shouldn’t expect other people to do that and I should DEFINITELY not get mad at them when they don’t.*

2. I need to manage my inappropriate feelings in an appropriate way. It reminds me of the following touchy analogy: If you’re sad and upset that you’re struggling with infertility and your friend is having a baby shower, you can tell your friend that you’re having a hard time and you can decide to not go to her baby shower, but you can’t get MAD at her for having a baby shower or tell your mutual friends that you’ll be upset with them if they go. That’s inappropriate.

3. So instead of throwing a fit last year, I really should have just done what I did this year: pull back from my social networks a little, lower my expectations, reign in my feelings, take medicine, and give myself little treats.

4. I’m putting this here to remind Future Jules.**

*I think part of the reason I had a lot of trouble with this was the very nature of the sexual assault trauma. I’ve felt dependent on external validation—people telling me it wasn’t my fault, that it was real, that I’m doing okay, etc. I’ve ALSO been trying to change that perception, but it’s not easy.
** It's gonna be okay, Future Jules. Traumaversaries are no fun, but you can handle it. Now go get yourself a little treat.

traumaversary

The problem with July is that the end of it always runs into the beginning of August.

My birthday is in the end of July.

The anniversary of when I was violently sexually assaulted is in the beginning of August.

It’s basically a recipe for disaster.

I tend to get a little sad around my birthday, which I HATE admitting. Before this year I thought I was just sad around my birthday because of crappy things happening, but I’m realizing that perhaps I’m just one of those people who gets Birthday Blues. Which is LAME and STUPID, because I can try to logic myself out of feeling sad but the FEELINGS don’t go away.

Anyway, I’m generally a little sad around my birthday.

Two years ago, I turned 30 and then a few days later I went on a trip for a conference/vacation combo and came home a rape victim/survivor.

The conference I went to is an annual event, in late July/early August.

This year, the conference just happened to perfectly coincide with my birthday.

I didn’t realize how much that would affect me until I collapsed into a puddle and had a good long cry, after leaving the bar early where I had met up with a few friends for my birthday.

People I know went to the conference this year. They schmoozed and gossiped and had a grand time at the conference that I was attending when I was raped, that also happened to be on my birthday. And that’s fine. Nobody owes me anything (except for my rapist who owes me a new pair of underpants and ALSO THE LAST TWO YEARS OF MY LIFE).

It’s LAME and STUPID that I would be sad that people I knew went to the conference. It’s LAME and STUPID that I would be offended at the very existence of the conference. The conference didn’t hurt me. But trying to logic myself out of them doesn’t make the feelings go away.

So apparently the end of July and the beginning of August are just going to suck for… who knows how long? And it’s nobody’s responsibility to make it suck less, except mine. The world didn’t change when I was raped, just my world.

But that doesn’t stop me from irrationally wanting apology letters from the conference and perhaps a burning effigy or SOMETHING that makes my pain and feelings real and tangible to somebody else because sometimes I feel like I’m still going crazy.

Dating me is not easy.

I have a couple new posts in the queue. (Wait. Seriously? That's how you spell queue? How awesome and ridiculous all at the same time.)
Starting over: I have couple new posts in the queue, one about my weekend trip to Vegas and one about my new table from the flea market, but both of those are on hold for right now because last night KC told me that his ex girlfriend is coming to town this weekend and he wants to hang out with her. So the presses have been stopped in order to deal with this breaking news item.

KC wants to spend time with his ex this weekend. And. Um. I just... ugh. Ack.

It that makes me anxious and tense.

It bothers me that he's going to hang out with her, but not in the way you might think.
Despite having screwed over in the past so very much, I actually really do trust KC. He has never given off a shady vibe or made me feel suspicious. He always answers the phone when I call; he's never weirdly unavailable or secretive. He'll leave his facebook page or email signed in on my computer and I feel zero urge to go through it. And if I ever DO have an odd feeling about something he is more than willing to talk to me about it. Also, to KC's credit, he talked to me before hanging out with her, and even waited to talk to me in person about it instead of over the phone. He didn't secretly go spend time with her and tell me about it later or not at all, unlike some people.

I just want to make it very clear that I trust KC so that isn't what the issue is here.
The issue is me and my own insecurities and jealous tendencies. It's something I have written about before, something I hate about myself.


I think that part of the problem is actually MY ex, the crazy one. It's easy to blame things on him because that relationship was such a cacophony of fuckeduppedness, but in this case I feel like it's really true-- I can look back to the time BC (Before Crazy) and see how I've changed.
Basically, what Crazy Ex did was a lot of emotional manipulation, part of which included making me feel competitive and insecure about his ex (are you following?). He didn't want us to get along, probably because he didn't want her to ever take me aside and say "Hey, Jules, this guy is bad news and p.s. I'm MARRIED TO HIM."*
*No, I didn't know that until after Crazy Ex and I had broken up and they were also divorced by then. I didn't know that they had ever been married. You'd think someone in his life might have mentioned that to me during the two years I was with him.

Maybe you will want to tell me that, pshh, it isn't a big deal to not get along with your partner's ex. And that's true, they're exes for a reason and there can be a lot of complicated history and hurt feelings and why on earth would you LIKE someone who dated your boyfriend before you?
But, you see, when you are in a relationship with an emotionally abusive sociopath the regular rules are out the window because you aren't dealing with someone with normal human emotions and tendencies. It wasn't just that I didn't get along with Crazy Ex's ex girlfriend (wife). No no, Crazy Ex purposely manufactured tension between his ex and me, so that we would never get along and that he could get exactly what he wanted out of both relationships. If he hadn't done this, I might not have been her best friend but I don't think I would have felt nauseous and panicky every time I saw her. Just like all the other ways he emotionally abused me, this started slowly (a word here, an old photo there) but eventually wore me down. It got to the point where he would openly compare me to her and and list the ways in which she was better. I got to the point where I felt like I could never measure up, that our relationship would never measure up to what theirs had been.


So. With all of that as backstory, let's go back to the issue at hand. KC wants to hang out with his ex.
When KC first moved to the Bay Area it was with this girl. She was moving here so he basically followed her. And then after a year(ish?) in SF he followed her up to Marin County when she wanted to move there. And then she cheated on him, broke up with him, and left him with a 2 bedroom house he couldn't afford and a lease he couldn't break. And two cats.
So one issue is that I have trouble understanding why KC would even WANT to be friends with someone who so royally screwed him over, but then again being friends with your ex is already a difficult concept for me to grasp.
And my other issue is that, as you can see, she was a BIG part of his life. He was very committed to that relationship and, according to his friends, devastated when it was over. When I'm in the mood to drive myself insane with obsessive thought-circles I do things like wonder if KC will ever be as committed to me as he clearly was to her, or if I'll ever be as important to him as she was, or if he loves me as much as he loved her.

I KNOW that logically I should just chill the hell out and not let it bother me-- I trust KC and if he wants to hang out with his ex then fine, whatever, have a good time.
I KNOW that KC is totally different from my Crazy Ex and that it probably doesn't even occur to him to, like, compare his relationship with me to his relationship with her. To him, letting her come over and see the cats is just letting her come over and see the cats. To me and my insane thought processes, it's them reminiscing about the life they once shared.

Logically, I know it should not be a big deal and that I should hold my head high and just get over it but logic doesn't take away my anxiety.

If you have any words to share that might help me get through this weekend, I'd be very appreciative. I DO have a therapist which is very helpful for when I want to explore my thoughts and feelings. But here I know what my thoughts and feelings are, I know where they originate and why they are so bothersome, but I don't know what to do when they come up. Go shopping? Repeat a nice, positive  phrase over and over in my head? Do something productive so I feel accomplished?
You've gotta give me some ideas because weeping in the shower just isn't cutting it.

___
EDIT TO ADD: I'd like to thank everyone who commented or who separately gave me words of advice or sympathy about this. I think sometimes I overanalyze myself and tend to think I'm reacting to something because of my previous relationships-- I'm messed up because of this or I'm extra sensitive because of that. I was beating myself up over this situation, but I came to realize that my reaction to it wasn't bad or wrong. It is okay that I'm not comfortable with this, even if KC doesn't understand, because my feelings actually matter.

aloha, cousin

This is my cousin, Christopher.

We were at the beach in Hawaii, so the shaka sign is very appropriate. He was probably taking a break between surfing and skimboarding, hanging out in the shade for a little while. I think this photo is from our family vacation when I was about 8, which means he was about 16.
That vacation was pretty awesome, as you might expect. I don't remember a whole lot of details from it, just little snippets here and there... swimming and splashing in the warm ocean water... eating shave ice... collecting macadamia nuts and avocado pits from the ground... walking around downtown and buying shell necklaces... drinking big glasses of POG and playing cards or charades....

My family lived pretty far away from Chris's while we were growing up, so vacations and visits were pretty much the only times we saw each other. Chris would tease me and goof around, in a big brotherly sort of way (or at least that's what I imagine, having never had a brother). Since I was so much younger than everyone else I was treated like a baby a lot of the time. But not by Chris-- he was somehow always able to make me feel included and special.

Seven years ago we all flew out to Hawaii for Chris's wedding.
Six years ago we all flew out to Hawaii for Chris's funeral.

There's not much else I can tell you about Chris. I'd love to talk about his music and his jokes and his beautiful wife, but those stories aren't mine to share. And there are so many things about him that I don't know myself, that I'll never know and I can't ask.
I'll never truly know him. I'll never understand what was going through his mind the night he walked into his garage and ended his life. I can't tell you about his struggles, his pain, or his anguish because I never knew about any of it.
The last time I saw him he seemed like the same old Chris, lighthearted and laid-back. Joking. Smiling. Happy.


After his memorial, we buried Chris's ashes on a hill overlooking the a sugar cane field and the sea. We cried and laughed and told our favorite stories about him. No one asked those difficult questions that I'm sure we were all pondering.
Why...?
and How could he...?
and How could we not have...?



When I tell people about Chris, they sometimes ask me if we were close. It happens more often than you'd think."I was really shaken up-- my cousin committed suicide."
"Oh... were you close?"

They say it sympathetically, like it is meant as a condolence, but the words catch in my ears and infuriate me.
Was I close? To my cousin whose death makes me physically ill?
DOES IT FUCKING MATTER?

Also: It's complicated.
To say that Chris and I were close would not be true. But to say that we weren't doesn't acknowledge what he meant to me, what he still means to me.

He was my cousin.
He was the only boy amongst a whole mess of girls.
He was our grandmother's clear favorite.
He was a jokester, a buddy, a nomad.
He was a musician and an artist and a surfer.
He was... different. I remember knowing that he was different before I knew what that meant or how hard it could be to be different from your family. He was unique and unapologetically himself.

Our family is loving and supportive, but Chris was someone who truly accepted and, for lack of a better word, celebrated people and their individual choices. I don't know how to say this without making the rest of my family sound like a crew of jerks, so let me be clear: I love my family dearly and I know they love me and are very proud of me. But Chris was, as I said, different. I don't think he would have cared that I have tattoos or that I've made some mistakes and done things of which I am not proud. Even if I had done something like quit school, I think he would have been nothing but accepting and supportive.

I remember that while all of us were getting caught up and stressed out about the little things, Chris was always there to see the bigger picture, the important piece.
Until, one day, he wasn't.

So, I feel like Chris and I could have been close. But of course I'll never know.

giant paper v 2.0, feelings

I turned in my Giant Paper Thing v 2.0 (or my New Giant Paper Thing, whichever you prefer to call it) today. People keep congratulating me. The lady at the desk where I turned it in gave me a big smile and a "Good luck!"
And while I appreciate the support, really I do, I can't help but feel rather... meh about the whole situation.
The first time I turned in that paper I felt a flood of nervous relief-- I was done! Huge weight lifted! Let's go out for happy hour and celebrate! Annnnnd then it all blew up in my face.

I couldn't even begin to imagine how I might go about writing that paper ALL OVER AGAIN OMG. I met with my advisor, Peg, and basically just argued with her the whole time. She'd tell me I didn't have such and such requirement covered in my paper and I would point out that she had originally told me I didn't need it or that what I had written was fine. I left that meeting more angry and frustrated than when I went in, plus I still had no idea where to start as far as the rewrite went.

 Then, on a whim, I emailed the director of my program, Sandra, and asked if she might have time to work with me at all on my rewrite. So I ended up working only with Sandra and not Peg. Which, spoiler alert, turned out to be a very good idea.

Sometime in early June Sandra calls me into her office and tells me that she figured out that the big issue with my original paper was actually the topic I chose-- all of the other problems stemmed from this one. I put my head down on the table and cried. Once I collected myself Sandra and I came up with a new topic (basically refocusing my old one), found the new articles I would be critiquing, and figured out a rough schedule for my writing. "What else do you need?" Sandra asked me as we were wrapping up.
"Um. Could you just, uh, tell me I'm not a complete idiot for writing the paper the way I did it the first time?"
"Oh!" said Sandra, "No no! You're not. There's no way you could have known that the topic wouldn't work without doing all the work you did."

But you know who probably SHOULD HAVE KNOWN that? My advisor, Peg. Apparently I had been stuck trying to do a PhD level analysis of a difficult topic when I should have just scrapped the whole thing and focused on something more straightforward. I can't even imagine how it would have gone if I had been stuck working with her AGAIN on my rewrite. Actually, I can imagine it: lots of weeping.
"But, I mean, hasn't she advised people before?" Jenny asked me when I told her that story.
I paused for a moment as I thought it over. "You know what? No, actually. She usually advises PhD students."
LIGHTBULB.

So. I had to write the whole paper all over again. And it was annoying and it sucked but it wasn't as PAINFUL a process as I thought it would be. I guess it was a lot easier since I had some real guidance and, you know, someone who actually answered my questions with a bit more than just "Well that's probably fine...."

Last week I went to my parents' house since my sisters were still in town and even though the house was loud and zooey at times with all the kiddos it was preferable to writing alone in my apartment all week and slowly going stir crazy. Plus, the kids were really cute and my sister made sangria every evening. On Wednesday night I stayed up until 4 am writing, editing, and writing some more. I was trying to get a draft of the whole paper together and email it to Sandra, since she had only seen the various pieces of it separately. I sent the email off at 4, then I ate a little snack and hopped in bed. I probably fell asleep at about 5, but Bowie woke up at 6ish, and jumped around until I put him in another room. And then kids started making noise at about 7 so I guess what I'm trying to say is that I didn't get a great night of sleep. And then at 9 am Sandra calls and asks me if I can drive an hour and a half to come meet her so that we can go over a few last things before I write my final draft. "What time should I come?" I asked. "How about 10:30?" says Sandra. Oh! Awesome! So I'll leave RIGHT NOW!
I shuffled into the kitchen, feeling cranky and sad. I whimpered at my mom for a minute. "Go take a quick shower," she said. "You'll feel better."
I took my shower and gathered my things and as I was heading out the door my mom handed me a little bag. "I packed you a lunch." She had made me a sandwich and added several little bags of nibbley foods (carrot sticks, chips) so I could much away and not fall asleep on my drive. Aren't moms the best?

To make a long story, well, longer, I finished my paper and I turned it in today.

I know that I worked as hard as I could on it and that I had good people helping me and Sandra gave the green light for everything in the paper. If it doesn't pass this time, well, I guess that's that. I got so worked up and DEVASTATED before when I didn't pass that now it just seems like a waste of energy. No, not a waste of energy. But like I used up all my Strong Feelings about this and now I'm just down to... meh.
Of course I WANT to pass. I want my degree and I have worked my arse off on this firetrucking paper TWICE, FTLOG and haven't I suffered enough just let the dang thing pass!
But if it doesn't? Life will still go on. I'll still get a job. I'll still be content with my life. I'm not letting this one stupid paper control my happiness, that's for sure.

The Giant Paper Thing doesn't own me anymore.

just a couple days

A couple weeks ago I had a rather... surreal few days. It started in clinical. I don't mind telling you now that it's over that my last rotation was on a cardiac unit. For my second-to-last day my preceptor arranged for me to observe open heart surgery. I got to assess the patient beforehand and then go with him down to the PACU and then into the OR.
I got to watch as they prepped the patient and anesthetized and intubated him. I watched the physician assistant harvest the saphenous vein and the doctors saw open the chest. And then they told me to walk around to stand with the anesthesiologist at the patient's head. I peeked over the drapes, and THERE WAS THE MOTHERF*CKING HEART. Pumping away as they worked on and around it.
Mind. Blown.
I have never in my life tried so hard to just NOT TOUCH ANYTHING. I kept having nightmarish thoughts about what if I accidentally touch the sterile equipment? What if I trip and fall over on something important? Or what if I trip and fall on the patient?
I didn't, though.
Everybody was super nice and welcoming to me. One anesthesiology resident even draped me with a warm blanket because the OR is, well, freezing. And the doctor preforming the surgery gave me a running commentary on what he was doing "Now I just attach the vein graft so the blood can flow freely through. I'm basically like a plumber, I suppose." Um. Dude. If you are comparing yourself to a plumber you are seriously the most humble doctor I've met in a great while. Because, no offense to plumbers, but HE HAD THE GUY'S HEART IN HIS HANDS.
I know it is surgery that they do every day but I was impressed at how the doctors and physician assistants and nurses and techs were all steady-handed-chilled-out-ho-hum-just-another-day-at-work meanwhile I'm standing there having an internal existential crisis Is he alive? Is he dead? THE MAN'S HEART IS STOPPED AND HIS BLOOD IS GOING THROUGH A MACHINE. What does this MEAN?
Seriously. Mind. Blown.
The PA had taken me aside before everything got started. "Look," he said. "it's going to be really intense in here. There are going to be sights and smells that you aren't used to so if you need to faint then step away." He explained that I needed to stay loose and comfortable and not lock my knees and meanwhile I was thinking PSHHH I've seen surgery before I'm all over this. Seven hours later I could barely stumble through the front door before I collapsed and passed out on my couch. It was INTENSE.

The next day I had my site visit-- the director of my program came to see me show off my mad history taking and physical examination skillz. It was nervewracking but it went just fine. Apparently they think I'm doing an okay job at this nurse practitioning stuff. I mean, that was my last site visit and they're going to let me graduate, presumably. Anyhow after that stressful couple of days I was in serious need of some R&R.
My friend D invited me to come with her and a group of gals from her program (I won't say what specialty they are but here's a hint: it has a lot to do with lady business and wee, brand new people). Anyhow they were all going to this spa so I tagged along. We headed over to Japantown's Kabuki Springs & Spa which turned out to be JUST what I needed. I paid my $22 bathhouse fee, stripped down, and spent the next couple hours feeling like some kind of goddess.
Bathing in the heated pool, dipping my feet into the cold pool, cooling my face and neck with icy-cucumber cloths, exfoliating my skin with salt in the steam room, lazing on a wooden lounge. It was just lovely. "Wait what?" KC asked me later when I told him about my day, "I was at work all day and you were in a spa full of naked ladies?" YES. And then I went out for drinks with D and the other gals.

And then the next day we had our last palliative care class. The last hour was dedicated to student presentations. People talked about their relatives or friends or patients who had died. Someone read a poem she had written about her father who had died and their tenuous relationship. Someone played a song they had written about a patient. One woman, a pediatric oncology nurse, presented a collage she had made of things that reminded of her of the kids she had taken care of who died. It was basically an hour-long sobfest. It was a nice way to end the quarter (and I mean that sincerely).

I told all my friends in class about the open heart surgery. I'm still telling people. I told my new preceptor yesterday. It STILL blows my mind.

Planbook

Because of an emailing snafu I recently found myself fishing out my old planbook and using it to piece together my clinical experiences from last summer.
I buy my planbooks in the summer for the upcoming academic year because I'm a student and I've been a student for a long, long time and now it's just habit so I do wonder what might happen if I switch to some other planbook-buying pattern. The point here is that I was looking for information from June 2010, which is the last month in that particular planbook. But I confusedly opened the FRONT of the book first and quickly realized I was in the WRONG SECTION-- Summer, 2009.

There are weeks and weeks and weeks with nothing written in them. Weeks when I was in LA or when I was traveling back and forth between LA and SF. Weeks when I was still wrapped up in an emotionally abusive relationship. I vaguely remember feeling like I was waiting for something. Waiting for the Crazy Ex to get his life figured out so that my life could be figured out. Because at the time my life was essentially an extension of his life.
I have jumbled, dim memories from this time. I see that I blogged, there are indeed archives. In July I nebulously talked about being unhappy, in August I avoided any difficult subject altogether. Huh. Nebulously unhappy and avoiding difficult subjects. Yep, I'd say that about sums up the summer of 2009.

There are also some photos from that summer. This is my favorite.

I think it is the most accurate-- no fake smile, no cheerful pose. Just me. Lost and confused.

As I mentioned, the pages of my planbook are largely empty from that time. I started writing in it again around the end of August. The things I wrote then? Oh, just normal things. But my handwriting is big, scrawling, shaky, dark. CALL HEALTH CENTER my planbook seems to scream at me.
GET NEW STUDENT ID
4:15 APPT 4761 1431 1414 RESCHEDULE
DO CLINICAL PPWK THURS FRI

Regular school stuff but written frantically, chaotically. Deep indentations in the paper where my pen was pressed hard.

What I see now when I read those words?

I'm trapped.


I'm afraid.


I have lost myself.


I was getting organized for school and clinicals but at the same time I was drowning.

I once had an English professor in college who told my class that the literary concept of foreshadowing is basically a load of crap because you only notice it when you look back on it after the big foreshadowed event has already taken place. When I look at that photo and page through my planbook I feel chilled and dizzy and anxious because I know what was about to happen. My tenuously balanced life was about to come crashing down; the masked monster was about to reveal his true form.
And, spoiler alert, we know that I made it out alive and well. But looking back at the things from that time is chilling. It reminds me of just HOW lost and confused and in fathomless denial denial DENIAL I was. And it makes me, for the hundredth, or thousandth, or millionth time grateful for the chain of events that wrenched me away from the dismal path on which my life was set.

Emo post. Fair warning.

I always thought I would be married in my early twenties, perhaps mid-twenties at the latest. I didn't come to that conclusion after lots of pondering and soul searching, it was just something I knew. As far back as I can remember, I always just assumed that would be how my life went-- I would be married and starting a family in my twenties. Married. Kids. House. Garden. Happily ever after. That's what my parents did. That's what my sisters did.

And here I am. Twenty-eight and living with my cat.

I suspect that this is the point at which some of you are rolling your eyes at me. If you've changed your mind about reading this post, no hard feelings. You're excused.

I don't want to sound bitter or whiny or some combination of both. I don't want to sound like I'm complaining. I'm not looking for sympathy or cheering up. Honestly, I just want to be able to feel how I feel and have that be okay.

I thought I would be married by now, living with a man I love, starting a family. But I'm not. And that makes me sad. The life I was so sure I would have is not going to happen the way I thought it was.

It makes me feel sad that I probably won't have a child before I am 30. And I know all the reasons why it perhaps should NOT make me sad-- lots of people don't even start to think about having kids until they are in their thirties, I still have plenty of time to have children in my thirties, I'm still in school, etc. I know that many people don't think about having kids until their thirties but you know what? That isn't me. I HAVE started thinking about having kids. I DO want them. And sure, maybe I still have plenty of time but I don't have UNLIMITED time. My fertile years are slipping by and I don't care if that sounds ridiculous coming from a 28 year old. I have been told that my "timeline approach" to dating and starting a family is nonsensical and sure, maybe that is true in a way. I do tend to hang onto dead-end relationships because I feel like I have invested so much time into them and I just don't want to start over again and ugh, yes, I do see the flaws in that. However. It doesn't make sense to me to just not think about it. Because there IS a timeline-- a physical, biological timeline. THAT IS SCIENCE.

Just because other people want to wait to have kids or they want to put their careers first or they don't worry because they still have plenty of time does not mean that is true for me. I don't want to put my career first. I don't want to wait.

But here I am. Waiting.

And this makes me sad. Not unbearably sad, not cry-myself-to-sleep sad. Just... meh... sad. Feeling this way does not mean that I'm unhappy with my life. It does not mean that I don't appreciate all the wonderful, truly amazing things that I have. It does not mean that I don't love my family or my life just exactly the way it is. And I'm also not disregarding the things I've learned or the relationships I've had. I know that I will definitely make a better wife/mother/partner because of my past than if I had started earlier.

I know that so many people have so much heartache. So many people can't have children or they have children and lose them or their spouses die or they are living with debilitating illnesses or a million other sad, terrible tragedies. I'm not saying that my sadness holds a candle to theirs, or that the loss of something intangible is comparable to the loss of something whole and real.

But my feelings are real. My grief is real. The loss is real, even if what I've lost was only a dream.

Something

Oh hai.

So.

Um.

I kind of hate reading those posts that are all "Sorry I've been away! Here's why I haven't had time to blog!" It always makes me feel kind of irritated like, 'oh what? You think I missed you? Like I read your blog or something? I mean, I DO read it and everything, but that's not the POINT.' I'm not sure what my imaginary point is in these hypothetical confrontations but I do seem to get awfully huffy about it.

So. If you're like me and you don't like posts like that, go ahead and skip on down to the bottom. Go on. I'll meet you there.

Because I'm doing precisely that. Sorry I've been away. Really I'm more "sorry" for me than for you. I don't want to presume that you were in some way missing me. But I CERTAINLY missed you.

Really all I've been doing is school and clinicals and group projects and putting papers in my new binders and banging my shins on the coffee table.
Also of note: I've been diagnosed with one of those infuriating chronic disorders with an umbrella label that they use to describe a collection of symptoms. Also? It's an EMBARRASSING one. Also? I feel like people think it is fake. No no, my friends, this pain I have is sadly very real.
With this diagnosis of exclusion type thang, there isn't a clear cause or cure. I just have to figure out how to handle it. And that's FINE but it still kinda sucks. Enough to make me want to lay around and feel sorry for myself for about a week. Dramatic? Me? NEVER.

I sort of got to the point here where I felt like if I didn't have anything amazing and glittery to say, why write anything at all? I don't know why, though. Because that has definitely never been a criterion before.

Yesterday I snapped out of it. I decided it didn't have to be amazing, it just had to be SOMETHING, DAMMIT.

So here it is: Something!

Sometimes

Sometimes the world feels like a bleak and dismal place.

Today I saw an very old and bent woman trying to cross the street. She had a little cart in front of her and one of those long white canes with the red tip-- you know, for blind or visually impaired people. I was at the opposite corner, in my car, making a left-hand turn. She was trying to walk across the street and I could tell she had gotten confused about which way she was going because she was tapping her cane on both sides of the curb and stepping in and out of the street and meanwhile the cars coming toward her had a green light. I couldn't do anything, I was in my car praying that someone closer to her would notice her and help her. Finally, just as a big black SUV came barreling toward her through the intersection, a young woman pulled her out of the street. And I was SO RELIEVED. But I was also irritated-- because WTF, SUV? I know that San Francisco in general and that neighborhood in particular is a place with jaywalkers aplenty but you and I both know that there is a big difference between 'Joe I'vegottabesomewhereinahurry' and the LITTLE OLD BLIND WOMAN crossing the street. So how about CALMING THE FUCK DOWN AND HITTING THE BREAKS?!

And then the other day I heard about a patient who had been tricked by a young man into signing away a bunch of her money and property to him and but he was never prosecuted because she died.

I remember also when I was working at a senior center and somebody STOLE a bunch of stuff from the computer room and I was like, seriously? You're stealing from a nonprofit senior center?

And I remember a couple years ago there was a video on the news about a young man who mugged an old woman. He punched her in the face and knocked her over, her walker fell on top of her. He stole her purse which had, like, seven dollars inside it.

Sometimes it is incredibly hard to walk into a nursing home and see people in their dim rooms with feeding tubes, skinny limbs, pressure sores, lying semi-conscious for days or weeks or years.

It is so difficult to watch the decline of Alzheimer's disease-- the confusion, the frustration, the loss. Or people who had sudden strokes. One day they were fine, and the next they can't remember how to speak.

It hurts to see people who were once whole and happy and well become sick and suffering. It breaks my heart to see people suffer. And there is so much suffering.

Cancer. Dementia. Cancer. Dementia. Arthritis. Heart disease. Stroke. Kidney failure. Parkinson's. Cancer. Dementia.
Depression. Loneliness.


Pain.

Sometimes I feel like I want to just lay down and go to sleep and pretend I don't see or hear all the pain.

And sometimes there are other stories. Other people.

One of the patients I saw the other day was a very old woman with severe dementia. She has a caregiver who lives with her and provides all of her care, including feeding, bathing, toileting, and dressing. The caregiver takes the woman outdoors whenever the weather is nice, brings her to church, invites her own family over, and plays music for her. The caregiver is paid a small stipend by the church because the woman doesn't have any family.
When I met her the caregiver was cheerful and bubbly. She has been caring for the woman for about 5 years and is going to continue for the rest of the woman's life.
I examined the woman on my visit and noted that she was impeccably well cared for. Her clothes were fresh and her mouth was clean and even her feet were moisturized with neatly trimmed toenails.
The woman had no bedsores-- because the caregiver sleeps on a mat on the floor in the woman's room and gets up every hour to turn her. Every hour.


Sometimes, all it takes is one person like this to remind me why I keep doing this.

I can't cure the world or end suffering, but I can keep learning and working and trying and helping and caring. And maybe I can make a difference in someone's life.

An open letter to Sandra Bullock

Oh Sandra, I know. I know.

I mean, obviously, I can't really know what you're going through. No one but you can. And I'm sure your situation is unique and we don't know the whole story, etc, etc. But I read the articles and tidbits about you and they make me feel sick to my stomach. They are strikingly, CHILLINGLY similar to my own experience.

You were with someone you trusted, in a life that you thought you knew. And then in the blink of an eye your world was turned upside down.

I read about how he led a double life, how his infidelities were a secret amongst his friends, and how he became a different person when he was around you and I shudder because I understand that all too well.

I used to wonder how and why someone could do that to me. I used to be angry with myself. How COULD I not have known? How could I have denied my gut instincts? How could I walk into a bedroom and see empty liquor bottles, tangled bedsheets, and women's clothing and not instantly understand? How could I turn away and let myself be talked into whatever excuse came next? How could I not believe my EYES?
 
I learned to stop asking why someone would do that to me. Because there was never an answer aside from selfishness and cowardice. And that was never enough-- there is no excuse that justifies betrayal. And I learned to not be upset at myself anymore. Because it is not your fault for believing or trusting. It is his fault for lying and cheating and betraying your trust.

You know what you have now? You have the truth. And isn't that a relief in a lot of ways? You don't have to wonder about that strange text message you found or that girl at the coffee shop looking at you strangely. You don't have to live with that sinking feeling that maybe everything is going to fall apart-- because it already did. And now you can move on.

And you have your freedom now, too. You don't have to apologize for being who you are anymore. You don't have to feel like you need to tiptoe around him and ask him nicely to be a part of your life. You never wanted him to be anything other than the man you thought you knew. But ask yourself, didn't he make you feel like you had to be someone different than who you truly are? Didn't he make you feel like your life was somehow less important or easier or fluffier than his? Didn't he act like being a part of your world was an inconvenience to him?


You have your life back. And maybe you can't see it yet, but that is something precious and exquisitely beautiful.

Touché.

The following is a conversation I had with my smarty pants little niece:

Are you ever going to have babies?

Well, yes, I want to have babies. But first I have to wait till I have one of these (indicating my empty ring finger) like your mommy has.

You DO have a ring right there on your other finger.

That's right, I do. But it's not quite the same thing. First I want to get married and then I'll have babies. I'll give you lots of little cousins, okay? Does that sound good?

No.

Why not?

You don't even have a boyfriend!

Lucky

Things can be really hard sometimes. But that's when I realize I have the most amazing friends in the world.

Thank you D, for giving me hugs, sharing beers with me, and encouraging me to feel angry instead of just sad.

Thank you Kel, for posing scenarios for me, and telling me I'm welcome to come over anytime and even bring my cat.

Thank you Becks, for telling me what I didn't want to hear and for making me really listen to myself.

Thank you Grace, for making an action plan and for giving me tangible help with a sticky situation.

Thank all four of you for wanting to talk to me, and for telling me that I'm awesome and that I need therapy. You're right.

I am lucky.

I'm back, baby.

So much has changed, but then again so much is the same as it ever was (oh yes, I just quoted the Talking Heads).

I'm back. Back to nursing school, back to the City by the Bay. Back to being in a long distance relationship (sigh). Back to job hunting and trying to get organized and experimenting with domesticity and trying to learn to cook without having to use actual recipes. Back to writing here and exploring my (many) feelings.

Did you miss me? I missed you. I am excited to be back. Bowie is excited, too. Check out his party hat.

With a little help from my friends

This has been a tough year. I moved. I started this crazy new school. I had drama of all sorts.

In November, probably not unrelated to all my stress and craze, I had a muscle spasm in my back. I was in excruciating pain and couldn't move very well so I went to the student health center. In my conversation with the doctor, he said that it might be a good idea to talk to a therapist since I appeared to be rather overwhelmed. I thought he was probably right.

I went to a therapist a couple times in LA and it was just the BEST experience ever. I could go in, unload all my tears and baggage and leave feeling like a brand new person, energized and ready to take on the world. So the doctor said he would put me on their list and someone would call me when one of the counselors was available to set up an appointment.

No one ever called. How's that for letting the mentally unstable patients fall through the cracks?

And so, I've been leaning rather heavily on a few people to help me through this year.

Thank you girlies for helping me through the tough times, listening to me, giving advice, and being steadfastly loyal. I appreciate it more than I know how to put into words.




p.s. I can't believe I had NOT A SINGLE recent picture of Kelly (wtf?), so I had to use this one from like five years ago. We were at the Getty Villa for family day. Michelle and Kelly made hair wreaths. I drew satyrs. And then we got to be muses in a play.

p.p.s. Kelly would like you all to know that she eats babies.

nursery rhymes

Some examples:
The Grand Old Duke of York
Oh the grand old Duke of York, he had ten thousand men.
He marched them up to the top of the hill, and he marched them down again.
And when they were up, they were up.
And when they were down, they were down.
And when they were only halfway up, they were neither up nor down.

Sounds to me like somebody got just a TAD LAZY after writing the first two lines.

Handy Spandy
Handy Spandy, Jack-a-dandy,
loves plum cake and sugar candy.
He bought some at the grocer's shop,
and out he came, hop, hop, hop!

I'm guessing he's hopped up on all that sugar candy.

Higglety, Pigglety, Pop!
Higglety, pigglety, pop!
The dog has eaten the mop,
the pig's in a hurry,
the cat's in a flurry.
Higglety, pigglety, pop!

I'm sorry. The dog has EATEN the what now?

Wee Willie Winkie
Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town.
Upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown.
Rapping at the window, crying through the lock.
'Are the children in their beds, it's past eight o'clock!'

Well, first of all, if the children were in their beds they sure as hell aren't now, what with all the RAPPING and CRYING. And, second of all, who the hell is this guy?? Wearing his nightgown and runs around knocking on doors at night? The town lunatic?? And, speaking of lunatics:

Gregory Griggs
Gregory Griggs, Gregory Griggs
had twenty-seven different wigs.
He wore them up, he wore them down
to please the people of the town.
He wore them east, he wore them west
but he never could tell which he loved best.

I wonder just how 'pleased' the people of the town were when they saw old be-wigged Gregory flouncing their direction.

but back to me again

So I took my laptop to school with me on Monday and got a surprising amount done, um, in between taking notes for class. I finished my financial aid application, started the NCLEX one, and looked up a bunch of stuff I had kept meaning to do but hadn't gotten around to. So it was good.

This week has been pretty tiring because clinicals are Tuesday thru Friday. They are short days (7-1) but for some reason it feels exhausting because there is no break from getting up superearly and we are working with psych patients who tend to be rather exhausting in and of themselves. But the thing about having an instructor who never ever everevereverever lets your class out even two minutes early is that when he ends clinical postconference 20 minutes early, PRICELESS. Oh my God, YES!!!

I like the unit where I am working, though I am still getting used to it. It makes me sad to see so many people with chronic mental illness. I used to work in an adult day health care center and, yes, it was sad. But it was different. Our program was based around activities and helping the clients live as satisfying, full, independent, and dignified lives as they could. Most of them had families and belongings and, most importantly, they went home at the end of the day. I am still learning about the unit where I am now, but it seems to be a place where people go to try and stabilize. Many of the clients were homeless and have no family. They have few posessions and recieve a $10 stipend from the program. I know it is good that they are in the program and being cared for. But it just makes me sad to see these people and know that they could easily be on the streets and also that there are hundreds of people with the same illnesses and situations who still are.

Okay, I'll get off that subject now or else I'm going to have to do some serious weeping. Something else that is kind of... odd... about the unit is that, because of the specific lisencing for the program the run, they have to provide a space and opportunity for their clients to smoke. I find it, um, horrifying? Here are these people with, like, heart conditions or COPD or asthma and we have to hand them cigarettes??? Yikes.

Okay. Nap time for me now. And then I've got big plans for this later involving going to Target, maybe readingish for class, and hitting the hay early.

Happy Thanksgiving!

My sister just called to say that my niece broke her arm on the trampoline at her in-laws house. My mom's response? "I guess they're not allowed to try and go somewhere else for Thanksgiving; they just have to come here." No, seriously, we're all concerned about the little one and hopefully she will be okay. Dad's gone to meet them at the hospital and until then I'm here with my mom and aunt and uncle and guests, feeling that familiar awkwardness that goes along with my inability to make small talk. We are also eating crab so that our stomachs are nicely stretched out for tonight.